The Artist as Crack Whore

By Dangeris F.A.G.


(This is the sixth installment of our series on Romàn & Clay, the irresistible avant-garde team of sexual liberation; enjoy:)


Clay was getting big.

     Having been promoted through the ranks of hot male professionals (though he still gave the occasional cameo), basically Clay got the opportunity to carve out a prime position for himself as screen writer and Crack Whore in Helmut’s operation. He earned celebrity acclaim as the first Crack Whore, but now almost every successful male porn production house retains a C.W., his title following set designer in the rolling credits.

He is also critical for casting

Among his other tasks Clay has to scout locations. He’s also critical for casting. The producer has a taste for studly Anglo guys, pale-to-tawny twinks, and a certain style of Cubano; he’s also  wild for scary Afro-thugs. When they’re planning a shoot Helmut and Clay retire to a private balcony on the second floor of Helmut’s villa and watch the gathered applicants hang around the pool. It tells them which ones to shoot at closer range.



    The young aspirants are all praying for the call when Clay’s subtly attractive assistant Rory is sent down with a clipboard to round up the Chosen according to their color-coded Speedos and thongs.


The young aspirants are all praying for the call

Those making the cut are then ushered into the “work” wing. They enter with querulous faces and Rory tells them to bring nothing else. They are ceremoniously paraded past Helmut and his “special friends” and  then corralled in an empty antechamber called “The Closet,” where C.W. Clay has complete power and can, and must, make them do whatever he commands.

    When they’re “ready” – which can take an eternity – they’re made to “come out,” into Helmut’s workroom, one at a time or in pairs or threes, to  do their stuff. Helmut puts them through difficult stunts, whatever occurs to him at the time. The icy cooling system perks up their nipples and ballsacks noticeably, the way the Krauts like it. And sometimes they’ll tell a boy to do such & such with Clay and then, presto, Clay’s in the mix. They try out different lighting, respecting the new rage in amateur authenticity -- which can be hard to reproduce, actually. If it’s working Helmut will even shoot some preliminary high-end video.


Respecting the new rage in amateur authenticity

We’re in the early days of a renaissance in superbly produced and scripted smut (another word for it might be “art”). And the art world had long since gone in for Amateur, with awkward but intended flaws, anomalies, imperfections both in actors and production values. Helmut always sides with his audience. Things were getting dirtier, riskier in audience taste for the sex-simulacrum experience, and that’s why Helmut came to rule the industry.

    Some of the performers are supposedly het, but they know what they might be asked to do to work art in this universe: you perform as instructed or it’s back to junior college.

But what does “when ready” mean?

Naturally, as Crack Whore Clay’s also in charge of drugs, though actual crack smoking is verboten. From among the range of substances in his “pharmacy” he mixes each dose on the basis of a short questionnaire the model fills out as soon as he’s in The Closet and nude. Certain drugs insure quality results, assuming the guy’s not already fucked up on something or just an untreatable bitch -- and he’d better not be because it’s on the application to show up for all interviews straight, meaning drug/alcohol-free, although the ambiguity’s intended and Helmut loves it when they’re confused, scared, in other words straight (het), which there’s no way of indicating on the app sheet unless they choose to say it in the Describe Yourself section. But it’s death to complain; they’re in this biz to say yes. Some are experienced and unafraid, but others are plenty perturbed, which is why, when they’re chased into The Closet, they’re given certain doses by Clay, who also helps them into harness arrangements, calf boots, cock rings, butt plugs, ball gags, chastity cock cages, leashes, collars and other restraints, ticklers, whips & chains -- all the requisite costuming and accessories. Their audience expect nothing short of upsetting, disruptive, virtually exhilarating.


They are in this bizz to say yes!

So they usually shut up about being het or vanilla and instead, in the initial interview, make a case for how long they can hold a boner (they know quality porn takes time) or how much torque they can endure in their buttholes, or how creative their dirty dialogue. To guard against empty promises Clay’s drug prescription helped if it took a model past shyness or wood-anxiety or being an untreatable bitch and actually got him horny, even sincere. Clay makes them get naked before submitting their flesh for “drug enforcement,” and after that they’re not allowed to relax. They may talk amongst themselves to kill time but not touch one another or themselves. Clay loves watching them stand around, nude, coming on to their cocktails – which make the shyest, snootiest or most reluctant among them get almost reflective. You can feel positive vibes spreading like an infection. Clay knows the routine, he’s been there, in the bitch category. That’s when he got the idea about drugs: he wanted to make himself and his fellow performer/sufferers feel, love, and feel loved, i.e., READY.

Clay collaborates with the DP on close-ups, involving nips, abs, the glistening cock, and especially the buttocks and the deeper culminating epicenter of the male anatomy – the swirling maelstrom, the life force and nugget of the male bottom: the naked, sacred sphincter. He never, however, shaves an ass raw (smooth) – that’s become universally declassé in cultured circles, other than maybe trannies and straight frat jocks. Instead, Clay had become a crack stylist extraordinaire -- butthole portraiture as a follicle science, which has to be expressed for a reason and purpose: the paying audience. In fact, porn stars were getting recognized, celebrated for their “rectalography.” Far from embarrassed, they now got floods of endorsements from anal product lines. All due to Clay’s remarkable work.

The naked, sacred sphincter

But at times a newbie will argue with his assigned role, mentioning how he signed up for top work. Clay answers these dissident forces, “Hey, you want the gig, football dick?” So, sure, he’ll do the ass, chest, armpit and groin work on these buff boys. What he’s keenly aware of is that, when it’s their anus, these ones are protecting something that’s precious. Clay almost takes pity. Not being a spooky shave queen, therefore, he much prefers the clippers. The intricacies require that a guy stand throughout, feet spread, then legs together, then elbows on bended knees. Occasionally the guy will find it oddly appropriate to turn around in Clay’s face with a hard-on, right in the midst of the clip session, which more or less proves he’s butt-erotic. In that event Clay might get his stuff out and turn the subject back to the front and bone him silly before going on with his important work. He knows it might be strange emotional territory for them, but that’s his job.

Historical Digression: For a while Helmut developed an obsession with the Oklahoma City Bomber Timothy McVeigh. Clay was too young to remember the incident but Helmut made him study the history through archival footage, video interviews with the killer and so on. Thus Clay too became a fan and even had his head clipped in a modified McVeigh. Lots of guys did. Timmy was, after all, a charismatic though quasi-geeky but strong, lean white guy that blew up a great big fucking building and took out 168 people. So maybe he was too exuberant. Maybe he was so far gone on repressed sexual rage that he violated the oedipal mother through terrorizing dark American federal gov’t employees, females especially. So maybe he didn’t score big for subtlety, but his boyish features made him look blameless -- not the kind of guy who says, “What’s human life to us prairie/faerie motherfuckers anyway?” Clay didn’t want to think too much about Tim’s homicidal side beyond the assertion that he’d needed severe anal intercourse a few times so it didn’t get so boring in his life – since the military.


He needed severe anal intercourse a few times

In Clay’s sensational bio-film treatment, the Army’s where it rocked for Tim. All those other guys he was buddies with, even fuck buddies, on the level of maybe some mouth or tug jobs, under “orders” or whatever. Sure, there was so much swinging dick around, talking tough, exposing too much crotch in the barracks, towel snapping or just immodest nude swaggering, bending over and leg spreading. And here was McVeigh semi-naked on his barracks bunk, foot climbing one of the four bunk poles, secreting his boner behind a raised thigh, looking but wondering how much looking was too much.
So in Clay’s screenplay the other guy’s darker than Tim, not that hairy, and comfortable enough in his jerky, bouncy masculinity. It’s Easter holiday and there’s town leave and some of them got to go home – hell, there wasn’t a war on at the time. But to Private Tim (an actor but a dead ringer) THIS was home. They just got sweaty shooting hoop (sometimes they called it “rimming”) but it starts raining so they return to the barracks for a shower, where, much to his fevered paranoia, Timmy has to finish up and get away, he’s starting to show.

But fast behind him trails the guy, named Bobby, wet towel draped over his shoulder. Timmy finishes toweling and has to pack himself away, in semi-panic, into white briefs. He then flops down on his bunk with the basketball. He likes Bobby’s ass but he really likes his dick. Seems Bobby doesn’t care if he’s walking around with half a boner. So Timmy lowers his leg to give Bobby a peek in response, under cotton.

They each telegraph a look of “Oh yeah?”

Eventually Bobby loses the towel, brings all his weight to bear in Timmy’s proximity and takes possession of the ball. A few mindless dribbles on the floor between his knees and things finally get started. Seems Bobby has staked everything on getting his way. The mine fields are laid, but aren’t these two horny soldiers there to test the mine fields?

The mine fields are laid

Tim’s plentifully equipped. He thinks of fucking Bobby, if it should come to that, as a combined pincer attack -- meaning his practiced het persona added to his deeper desire -- converging on the hills of Bobby’s ass covered in snow, as in Stalingrad, Tim’s favorite Second War battle. Yes, he is HOME – ingloriously perhaps -- and can’t stop himself. It’s a matter of winning battles, isn’t it? “The side that stays within its fortifications is beaten.” He remembers that from somewhere, his own reading of Mein Kampf or a classroom lecture (Timmy did not abstain, at that time, from having feelings for the government). Thank God, he thinks, for the Army! McVeigh fancies himself the partner that’s doing it for Nothing Better To Do. At least he acts that way.

But no face, not as yet. Isn’t this what 69 was invented for? It gets to where they move on to some ass play, with tongues, fingers inserted, where the need of a condom becomes imperative.. Thing is, when Bobby jumps up to fetch one from his kit they haven’t resolved who’s supposed to wear it, though it’s naturally crucial. Timmy’s ambivalent: it’s between wanting to play the girl but not wishing to share this intimate secret with a fellow soldier at arms, not even Bobby. That’s how fucking complex McVeigh got, and all these unbelievably dumb clichés were actually scripted as Tim’s voice-over in Clay’s psychosexual docudrama. In this moment of indecision Timmy thinks, What the hell, Bobby’s got a killer ass, and even though my dick’s slightly bigger his is like rock hard, sticking way up like a friggin’ flagpole!

Like a friggin' flagpole

Slightly to Tim’s disappointment, Bobby tosses him the rubber.

And just when they’re into it, front to back, in walk Dante and Kosinski.

Yes, this is the precise moment when Timothy McVeigh’s well-guarded secret merges with the troubling question: Should one fear a tyranny – without hope of vindication?

So maybe this is why the real McVeigh blew up a building and got caught the same fucking day because he was driving without license plates.He was pretty slick but his basic timing sucked. Or who’s to say he didn’t want to get busted? Thus in the end he was locked up with all those black guys, and anyone’s assumption might be that a lot of them wished to drop Timmy, meaning kill him, if they got a chance – the way they bumped off Dahmer. Clay suspected, with some certitude, that numerous of them obviously made a point of prison-raping Tim in the showers or behind the stacked boxes back of the chow hall kitchen. Sure. As justice for their bitches, or sisters, mothers, what have you?

Numerous of them obviously made a point of prison-raping Tim

Clay’s thing was that he embraced the ambivalence of sadomasochism. So the first thing to say is The homosexual unconscious constitutes the very stabilizing force of masculinity. Clay was so sure of this he’d stake his life on it. When he was a college kid and punished himself with reading Bataille and Foucault and even Derrida and Lacan – that is, before his stints as porn star, screen writer, Crack Whore -- he had lived out the above theory’s authenticity in a master/slave relationship productive of the same ambivalence that attaches to abstinence and virginity. He thought abstinence was an interesting concept because it signified real ambivalence. In mastery is bondage, in bondage is mastery. But beyond that dialectical crap was the exclusive territory of the queer male. That is, masculinity is never truly subverted by the feminine but only conflicted, necessarily disrupted, whereas the homosexual male poses the natural inversion of thwarted heterosexuality (read “masculinity”), just as the unconscious inverts the psycho-mythos of conscious identity. (That’s how Foucault caught AIDS in SF baths.)

Fortunately, Clay left all that nonsense behind to the academic posers, who actually published sentences like that, and lit out on his own investigations. His slave was Cody, a Texas college dropout who got into making tawdry amateur porn flicks that outdistanced the level of transgression even the industry bigshots could match.

Cody was such a stunning master stud bottom by nature that Clay always had a full throbbing hard-on before his zipper came down. Once Cody got into the legit porn circuit (for the money, of course) it got to where, if he dated anyone they had to come up with a game he could get with. Stuff the “films” never bothered about, that being only blowjob work as far as Cody was concerned. So if it wasn’t genuinely creative after work he’d rather get high and dream about scenes involving other creative males.

Cody was such a stunning master-stud bottom

That’s where Clay came in. Clay was good for Cody. They agreed love needed a creepy, intense narrative. For instance, Cody was into bizarre ways of coming together -- not in the sense of ejaculating but of meeting-as-strangers. Additionally, it was essential they not meet as homos (though of course that’s never certain) but as fully-formed “members” of the feminist-outlawed patriarchy. If there was any ruling bias it was toward rigid, even hostile heterosexuality. This was the political posture they naturally preferred – the left being merely a boring sellout, especially since Cody insisted on Suffering: passionately and poignantly taking on the identity of politicized, alienated other: the ex-con, the non-union, bottom-rung construction worker, illegal immigrant, Mormon evangelist, fracking equipment salesman, lonely small-town paperboy, conservative college professor, even secret Klan brother or unrepentant serial killer. Clay might inhabit the rock star, track & field coach, Marine drill sergeant, callous WalMart supervisor to Cody’s civilian back-alley rat: skeleton of capitalism, and so forth.

They performed dramatic, sexualized violence at its highest pitch: their roles were roughly scripted, then played out in public venues. Sometimes it took days before they got around to making love – love’s prerequisite always taking the form of eroticized fighting (is there any other kind of love?). One time the script battle (but only at the level of argument) turned hard-core physical in an upscale middle-eastern restaurant called Salaam. Their quarrel escalated beyond the literal when Clay was cast as New Orleans mafia regulator, and Cody, starring in this scene as a heathen Texan runaway, wanted active discipline so bad he spit beer at his top/daddy/sponsor over the table. Passion took over and they were arrested for breaking chairs and wine glasses, and for destroying an oil portrait of some Persian princess. Thus they spent the night in separate holding cells and later had to pay damages.

Locked up separately – effectively interrupted, though script time went ticking on – they nonetheless violated the scenario by performing coitus a tergo with their jailers and selected cellmates. At least that’s what they told each other after their release, enumerating the many ways they had betrayed each other during this “inserted” narrative. The recital of their separate infidelities stimulated their jealousies so much that instead of killing each other they jizzed their jeans. And thus their political drama drew to a sexy Hollywood close. It made them laugh for shame. But Clay and Cody agreed this experience had only strengthened the integrity of their roles.

The recital of their separate infidelities stimulated jealousies

Cody’s body became the site of perverse occupation by Clay. He even wrote a cloying poem about his cowboy Cody:

silver longhorn belt buckle
tit rings used like stirrups
reek of palomino about his wrangler ass
taste of Texas doom all down his throat

It was cheesy but he meant it. He wished alternately to sully Cody’s flesh and to worship it. Cody was modestly muscled, pale skinned, dirty blond-haired, kid-faced, nice-assed. He was outstanding in the nude and a natural exhibitionist, and he liked a LOT taking it by force.

Clay, posing as a stranger, once watched him hook a straight guy in a Texas restroom:

Cody’s hard dick at the urinal already has the boy’s attention. His signature belt buckle dangling free because he’s wearing tight, dusty button-down jeans. “Think you wouldn’t do me?” he jeers at the long-tall Texan, lopping his meaty balls out for greater emphasis, then:
“Look at THIS, motherfucker!” Cody turns his back, lowers pants, raises shirt, peers over shoulder. “Go ahead, pussy.”

Long pause. Back of cowboy pretender’s neck growing rosy.

Cody, hands to the wall, spine curved, ass twerking in slo-mo, exhibits his butt’s quintessence.
Longer pause. Tentatively the blushing cowhand, whose girlfriend’s waiting out there on a barstool, takes a chance.

BOOM.

It was awesome to watch!

And we could even mention Clay-as-passive too, though his honest preference was for the dominant stuff. One of his daddies during this phase once asked Clay what he thought was too extreme discipline. Clay answered, cryptically, “Stop when you get there.” To him, passive love was fun (if only nihilist-intellectual) in the sense of not doing any harm beyond allowing others to.

So we could mention Clay-as-passive, too

So finally, back to Helmut’s thriving, world-class enterprise. Helmut’s Miami operation was upscale, though, again, he appreciated the paradigm shift in audience demand; that is, no longer did it seek the usual boring, shaved and pampered South Beach gym body, or the happy happy Bel Ami twinks, but rather insisted on socio-realism during this economic downturn -- while the new players were nonetheless required to deliver virtuoso work. These new types appearing at Miami clubs was a total event – with their hungry, sunken eyes, excessive tats, filthy jeans and musky odors. Two, so far, had even been assassinated in drive-byes. Some of Helmut’s new line of films consisted of nothing but tease fantasies, where it took a couple of flirty but nervous first-timer, after-school, semi-athletic types an hour to really accept their truer emotions and strip and get down to some hard fisting. Their nipples were it, but here the hard focus was on their faces, dripping sweat, and their tortured dialogue. Helmut’s sound engineer could pick up the raging pulse of their blood, the anxious air moving inside throats and lungs, escaping lips and nostrils, the grinding of cocks, the crisp crackle of groin hair, and even a nearly sub-audible fart. In this way the peeling down of an elastic waistband was polyphonic!

Helmut’s trademark had become mortal danger and suspense – like a mean, tough, het gangster lightly napping with his .9 millimeter under his pillow while, three feet away, in the next bunk, two Australian blonds come close to the edge of complete fucking abandon and sotto voce mayhem. The gothic lighting in this picture picks up the sweat beautifully, a sort of gilt-filtered noir effect, with the noises of rain and lightning. Title: Noir in Black & Blue.

Clay’s famous Nazi bunker project was finally produced in Nov.-Dec. It was his first triple screen credit. In it he played the Yank corporal to Jeffrey Handcock’s jealous hauptman. There’s some adorable Genet sentimentality when Clay suffers the older enemy officer to witness him ravaging Herr Hauptmann’s captive young troops. What’s left of Hitler’s fighting age soldiers are demoralized but full-featured totality machines, meaning they’d retained their beautiful body armor but dropped the bullshit politics. The Kraut actors are subtitled and their speech reveals that they’re not that depressed about the war’s ending – they’ve known it’s been over for the Nazi side for months – and their captors (saviors) are these American beauties with all their slimness and fully-erect, circumcised cocks and romantic illusions. The Nazis call the allied CO “Mutter Gottes” (Mother of God).

Herr Hauptmann's captive young troups

During the day (in fact, all that distinguishes day from night in the bunker) the Americans have the power through simple weaponry and conventional bondage procedure. But at night the forces of the id take over, as if overtaking the Yanks in their dreams, and the blond, milk-white German prisoners dominate. For wardrobe Helmut had pull with the Versace designers who’d been instrumental in outfitting both the Israeli IDF and Palestinian Police Force, the two best-dressed militias in the world at the time. Helmut and Clay had assembled an international cast and crew of perennial rivals (favorites): U.S. and Hun whites, but among the Allies a few Afro-Cubans and American blacks the enemy went crazy for, such as in the Sadean nightmare sequences. Title: Gesässerotik (buttocks eroticism). One bummer: the DP Francois prissily objected to the German de facto top fantasy at “night,” which affected his work, he claimed, so he was fired. Nevertheless, the replacement cameraman’s credits were all in high-concept TV commercials; even better, his name was Klaus.

Gesässerotik

At the end of Gesässerotik it comes out that Clay’s character is a Jew (he’d had a nose built, his head and pubic hair dyed black, and good thing he was already circumcised) collaborator with the Germans, and thus all the implications had to be reconfigured by the audience. The actors didn’t get Clay’s conceit but Clay explained it for critics in a German TV interview he gave at some festival in Milan. And the revealed sexy Jew double-crosser character was analyzed in Der Spiegel and Variety, and roundly condemned on a prominent Paris website. It made Helmut and Clay a fortune!

Clay was getting big.

   



Dangeris F.A.G. (his nom de plume) lives deeply and obscurely in the American fly-over, between north and south, where he teaches creative writing at a college and is happily about to retire -- he is older than he oughta be. This is the sixth part of a short story collection built on Romàn & Clay's characters. More are forthcoming.



Comments